Her room was as awful as ever, the bedding looking to have been unchanged since she was last here, a probing spell sending up a thick haze of dust motes. She had to use her eldritch blasts to ‘open’ the window, blowing away poorly mortared brickwork that had sealed the room in, letting pale sunlight enter the room as she tried to usher the dust outwards. She focused, a spiral of power flickering into being around her feet, as she summoned up a servant to aid with the cleaning, wary of being interrupted by one of the phantoms or wraiths that dwelt here.

It began to push the dust outside, making the room slightly more fit for habitation, although still not where she would have chosen to sleep. She experimentally pushed down on the mattress, sending forth another thick cloud of dust. It was a shame that she hadn’t learned Hakara’s sanctum spell; that would be far more comfortable than sleeping on a mould-tainted bed. Comfortable that she was alone, she plucked at her top, looking beneath it – her tattoo was dull and dark now, having moved down onto her belly, entirely unmoving. She poked at it, trying to encourage it to move up to its more usual position. It didn’t respond at all. Most peculiar. After chiding it, she left it where it was – it was probably for the best to keep it concealed, as Mother would almost certainly not approve.

She wondered where Semari and Vrintar are – although this place formally had guest rooms, those that were well-maintained were only used for honoured guests, while the rest could be mistaken for dungeons, save for having slightly better ventilation. It was unlikely they were being actively mistreated; if nothing else, the two of them could probably fight off the guards, and likely some of her siblings, at least if they could get close. Although she had no idea how potent they were – her own recent ascent to power had been nothing short of meteoric, the wealth of experience she had gained in the field empowering her far faster than the same time in a more studious environment.

Their progress and advancement would likely have been slower, Janaxia assumed. Kivata seemed scarcely more potent than from before Janaxia had left, and what little self-confidence she had once possessed seemed to have been mostly eroded beneath craven and forced submission. Well, that was something to work with – it seemed unlikely she would be a direct threat and could probably be cowed with a demonstration of force, if necessary.

No, the ones that would be problematic would be Ophexia and Perasperan. Mercifully, they had been frequently absent during her younger days, but her encounters with them had been… unpleasant, and that they hadn’t left her with permanent scars was more by luck than anything else. But even then, they had been powerful, able to bend the boundary between the worlds of the living and dead with ease, often dispatched on tasks to recover ancient artefacts or deal with potent enemies at Mother’s command. In the intervening time, they would likely have grown even more powerful.

But not, Janaxia suspected, more powerful than Mother, at least not openly. Her most potent magics she would keep to herself, only sharing with those whose loyalty could be utterly assured, and that loyalty like enforced by powerful magics. And the result of such binding powers tended to be rather personality-altering, at least for the recipient. Janaxia shuddered – hopefully such a thing was not to be her fate! But those two, it would be best to avoid if at all possible, and definitely avoid any conflict with.

She poked her head out the window, flicking away some grit. Outside, the internal courtyard was utterly consumed by ivy and other weeds, the ground fully concealed beneath. The place would be utterly inaccessible without clambering around the walls. She would have to remember that – it had been a useful cut-through, when it had been clear, but now she would have to go all the way around instead.

The spirit bustled around her, continuing to pick up dust and toss it out the window as she found the cleanest place she could to sit down – the edge of her desk. It still bore the scars of much use (and abuse), with several attempts at ritual circles, when she had been attempting to learn magic, all those years ago. She idly traced one with a finger, while pondering what form her trials would take. Her first she had barely survived; her second had been less physically threatening, but rather more terrifying. Most of that she could only remember at night, pain-filled flashes of half-memory that vanished when she awoke. She would probably be made to undertake at least two, maybe? That seemed

She briefly envied Hakara – the Academy put its students through a rigorous curriculum, but students could be assessed and tested via examination and practical tests, rather than subjected to a gauntlet of whatever one’s master deemed appropriate. While it was less impressive, it was also significantly less lethal! Still, there was little choice but to endure it. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.

With her eyes shut, there was darkness, something denied her otherwise. She slowed her breathing, tuning out the quiet sounds of the spirit cleaning up around her. She could feel her power within her, currently quiescent. She let her consciousness slip into it, pulling it around herself as a cloak, taking comfort in the cool embrace. Words, or rather the sensation of words, of pure meaning and import without the cloaking of symbols, tumbled through her mind, as she sought to summon up all her power.

Mother always liked direct confrontations – one of her few nods to spectacle, creating a grand and theatrical conflict, although often with decidedly stacked odds. Although Janaxia did have a few surprises of her own, relative to more traditional wizards. While fighting with a stick may not bear the dignity she would wish, it would probably come as a surprise to her opponents. And it was a struggle to cast spells when being physically assaulted!

A lot would depend on the nature of the trial – it would likely be something quickly set up, lacking the complexity of her second trial, where she still wasn’t sure how much of what she remember had actually happened and how much had been illusion, probably tending towards the directly combative. If it was against one of her siblings, then Kivata she could almost certainly defeat – her own eldritch blasts seemed to have greater potency than the missiles and rays of other wizards, and being knocked around was disruptive to most spellcasters.

It seemed likely that she would have to endure several trials, so she should do her best to avoid using her spells without need. It would be inconvenient if others were to adjust their tactics! No, better to let them think she had similar powers to themselves, albeit with less focus on the scholarly aspects of necromancy. It was a shame that she couldn’t even summon up a simple skeletal servant – while it would need attiring appropriately, it would be useful to have such a retainer. Maybe a servant could be hired from the town? Although with the reputation her family had, they would demand a high fee, most likely.

She felt the darkness flood around her, comforting and cooling. It was like being submerged in water, ethereal currents buoying her up, swirling around her. She felt a sensation, a tug on her waist, in the physical world. She opened her eyes, hearing a sudden, leathery thwip-thwip-thwip. Her book was moving, the pages flapping, the brass lock somehow having gotten released. She unclipped it and placed it on the desk. The pages continued to rustle and flip before it stopped. Text appeared there, her eyes taking a moment to focus, before understanding came.

The wand chattered, arms clawing at her, skull slowly turning to look at her, eyes sparking. She lifted it in a hand and rapped it against the table, commanding it to stillness. It clacked and twitched at her, only stilling itself after several increasingly hard knocks against the wood. It shuddered, arms and legs flailing, like it was trying to move away.

Would you stop that? For a legendary artefact, you seem rather pathetic. It was scrabbling around, as though trying to stay away from the book, pages still rippling slightly. Most peculiar! Although it had reformed itself on previous occasions, adding new ornamentation, but spellbooks were often peculiar, and hers was clearly enchanted. More symbols flashed over the page, slower now, entirely filling the page with densely-written text. She picked up the wand and smacked it against the page, trying to silence it.

As soon as it touched the pages, more shapes rippled across the page, like dropping a stone into a still pool. The twitching protests of the wand slowed, as it tried to twist in her hands. Stop that! It simply clacked at her in protest. Most of the words were gone too fast for her to read, sinking into the greater mass of lines and swirls of ink, leaving only a momentary impression of fear and panic. She held the wand tightly, ignoring its movements, although kept it at a safe distance from the book. The frenzied chattering slowed, although it was still reacting as though in mortal peril.

The pages started to clear, extraneous text removing itself, untidy scribblings and mad ravings fading away, until all that was left was a formula. It was a spell she hadn’t seen before – and a powerful one as well, it seemed. Not for the first time, she wondered where the spellbook had come from – beyond the rare, but not unheard of, abilities of being able to be summoned when she forgot it and making cosmetic changes to itself, it seemed to be trying to offer advice in some fashion. Although it had never attempted any other type of communication, and, if it was an artefact, it was very well-mannered. Most such devices attempted to puppeteer their owners, turning them into hollowed-out vessels for their own desires. Although maybe it had realised her strength of will and so didn’t even make the attempt?

She wouldn’t put it past Mother to use her as a test-subject for such an item (Ophexia had once been locked into a chamber with the Hand of Garuthimor, returning only after several days with painful-looking wounds on her arm and wrist and a haunted look in her eyes, but at least she had managed to resist it such that she hadn’t cut off her own hand and replaced it with the item), but it seemed unlikely she would be allowed to travel with such a thing. She carefully tapped the pages with a finger, causing a small spiral of symbols to fade and then vanish. She could only read a few of them before they were gone – weak, shame, confused.

‘There’s no call to be rude!’ The book, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer. But the spell it now offered up to her seemed potent, even if linked with a mildly unsightly side-effect. Well, that would hopefully eliminate itself once the spell expired. She took a deep breath, practicing the required motions and incantation – it was brief, especially compared to high ritual magic, but required precision.

Some hours later, she was distracted from her studies by the mournful clang of the dinner bell, a sonorous echo magically enchanted to sound throughout the entire house. She rose, hesitating for a moment before attaching the book and wand to her belt – it would definitely be safer to display whatever tokens of power she had, lest she be assumed to be easy prey! The wand’s manic chattering had, mercifully, stopped – Mother was a stickler for silence during meals, and being punished on her first day back would be a poor start.

She still remembered her way through the halls, although many were now even dustier and grimier than before. She passed a robed skeleton, hands waving through empty air as it made dusting motions, the target of its cleaning a sconce some few paces away. Janaxia sighed – would it really be so much trouble to hire a few townsfolk to serve as cleaners? They might be less fitting for the ambience, but they would be drastically more effective! The temptation to shift the skeleton, so that its mindless gestures would achieve something, was strong, but she had no desire to be late, as she swiftly strode towards the Ivory Chamber.

The doors were currently open, showing the long table already set, Poratia at the head, everyone else sat in order of rank. A servant – an actual, living servant, bowed at her as she entered, without saying anything.

Shamuth was already there, sat at the mid-ranks, his wife one seat down. She had, at least, made an attempt at style, her hair tied up in a not-unattractive chestnut swirl, although her dress was some few decades out of style and poorly cared for to boot, an ugly lumpen thing with a rather excessive bustle that exaggerated her posterior to a farcical degree. She glanced up as Janaxia entered, Shamuth following her movement with eerie synchronicity. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Where Greganx would sit was, of course, empty, although cutlery had been laid out. To sit there would be presumptuous, but Kivata had not yet arrived – while only a seat up from Janaxia’s own (at the very bottom of the table, furthest from Mother, from whom all power derived) her position was still an improvement. And the cushioning seemed to have been recently repaired, compared to the cracked and broken padding on Janaxia’s own seat. Which, she noted, had clearly been uncleaned in her absence, dust and cobwebs covering it. Well, that was Kivata’s problem now.

She sat down into Kivata’s chair, ignoring the cool gaze of Shamuth and his wife. There were no extra chairs – although some of her siblings had spawned, their progeny were not yet of age to be deemed worthy of a seat in their own rights. Presumably someone remembered to feed them and provide the other necessities of life, but that was not Janaxia’s concern.

The others, more confident in their position, hadn’t felt the need to rush, knowing that the gap between the bell sounding and food being served could be lengthy, especially if Mother, the true determinator of household timings, was in the middle of some project.

Trakatha was next, looking as tired and dazed as always, although she had at least washed her hands this time, if not changed her clothing, the scent of blood drifting in with her. From the gore splashed against her robes, she was in the middle of preparing more corpses, attempting to extract their souls as chained ghosts, before transforming the bodies into skeletons or zombies. Necessary, to provide the house with retainers, but she really should clean herself up better. She had some potential, at least, with well-defined features, a rounded face and, hidden beneath her baggy robes, an impressively curvaceous figure.

Although hidden away in the crypt-laboratory, it seemed unlikely she would meet any partners for a dalliance, at least any with breath and a heartbeat. Perhaps she dallied with ghosts? Or was sufficiently dedicated to her spellcraft not to feel such urges? It seemed rather pitiful and lonely, either way.

As she saw Janaxia, she froze, stumbling for a moment – she never had liked any sudden changes to her routine or what was expected and normal. She blinked several times, before managing to speak, her voice roughened from too much time inhaling toxic chemicals and spell components.

‘Janaxia? You have returned.’ She frowned when she saw where Janaxia had sat herself, before slumping her shoulders, wanting no part of any dispute.

‘Good afternoon, Trakatha. Yes, it has been some time, but it seemed necessary to return. I see that your studies are going well? I believe I saw some evidence of your handiwork accompanying Greganx.’

She relaxed slightly, always more comfortable when discussing matters of arcane craft. ‘Oh yes, I had never had occasion to work on a beast such as that giant. A fascinating problem, when the Necava limit is reached, when a single body is too large to be affected by a single spell. I had to custom craft several…’ She kept talking, Janaxia smiling politely as the terminology washed over her; Trakatha had always sought refuge in her studies. She had even let Janaxia hide in her laboratory a few times when seeking to escape her other siblings, taking no part in family squabbles, lacking the ambition or pride, content to simply follow orders as long as she was supplied with bodies and arcane reagents.

Perasperan and Ophexia were next, their entrances carefully timed so that neither could claim precedence, even by accident, arriving by opposite doors, their spouses trailing silently behind. Both were attended by carefully-crafted probably-undead retainers, swathed in simple but stylish black robes trimmed with silver, and their faces hidden behind silver masks. The weapons the retainers bore were probably for more than just show; they were both sufficiently accomplished to bind the spirit of the dead into the body, and powerful enough that slaying a swordsman would be a simple task.

Neither acknowledged Janaxia beyond a cursory glance, although Trakatha and Shamuth merited a nod and a muted greeting each. The next to arrive, in something of a lather, was Kivata, obviously fearful of being late. She stepped inside, not even noticing Janaxia was sat in her seat until she had reached for the back of the chair to drag it back. Janaxia shifted her weight, pinning the chair in place, coolly meeting her sister’s eyes and staring her down, trying to project the impression of being entirely at her ease.

A rune of power sparked into life around Kivata’s hand as she readied herself to force Janaxia to move, Janaxia readying her own spells – nothing directly violent, of course, or Mother would punish them both, but Kivata was a weak-willed thing, so calling up the iron crown should force her submission. Hopefully…

Ophexia coughed, sound cutting the air and breaking the growing tension, as the door to Mother’s study creaked open. There was barely time for Kivata to break off and slide into Janaxia’s seat, frowning at the cloud of dust she sent up, as Mother entered the room. She glanced around, looking for anyone not sat down, ready to inflict punishment upon anyone guilty of such a breach of etiquette.

There was an audible sigh of relief, from both Janaxia and Kivata, as she moved to her seat without unleashing her powers or questioning their seating. As she approached, the chair (closer to a throne, all heavy wood, studded with black iron, a large ruby above the sitter’s head) slid backwards in readiness. Behind her, the silver-plated skull of Janaxia’s father sat in a stone-carved niche, the gem-filled eyes currently quiescent – he must be resting, or intent upon his meditations again.

Mother picked up the goblet laid out for her (another ugly and heavy thing of iron chased with silver, bound about with spells to ward off poison) and raised it. ‘To the Uth Tremari. When the longest night is born, we shall rule the blood-stained shadows!’ She took a sip, the others reciting the same words and drinking as well, Janaxia imitating the motions. This was new – normally it had been a swift invocation of the glories of the family blood, nothing more.

With that done, she sat, steepling her fingers in front of her. Even Peresperan and Ophexia looked slightly nervous – clearly, Mother’s capacity for punishments hadn’t diminished any in Janaxia’s absence.

‘Our errant daughter, Janaxia Uth Tremari, has returned to us. She has, it seems, survived many travails, and, it is hoped, increased her abilities to that which is her birthright. To test this, she shall be put to the trial of advancement. As her master, maker and tutor in the mystic arts, so do I decree. Are there any here that say otherwise?’

The words were meant to be spoken in front of a conclave of other wizards, but with everyone present, this formally qualified. Quiet murmurs of agreement ran around the table, although Kivata’s was tinged with spite.

‘Very well. Trakatha, I am sure you have a beast that is suitable. Kivata, I leave the details to you. Congratulations, Janaxia. I am interested to see if you will survive.’

Janaxia bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Mother. I will bring glory to our blood.’ She ignored the snort of disbelief from Shamuth, as the meal arrived, borne by more skeletal servants. At least the food was simple enough that even undead servants couldn’t make it taste much worse – boiled vegetables, chilled meats, and a thick, greasy paste that was probably meant to be gravy. There was no conversation, the atmosphere cold, everyone focused on their own food, Kivata angrily sat in her new seat, glaring at Janaxia and clearly unhappy about her enforced demotion.

The only acknowledgment of her presence was the occasional intrigued glance from Ophexia, and a long stare from Shamuth’s wife, some strange power gleaming about her eyes. She felt a pressure building against her as the stare lengthened, a force probing against her mental defences. On a sudden impulse, she let the force in, lowering her defences just for a moment, remembering the cool embrace of the darkness. She felt a mild headache, as the woman sagged back, blood trickling from her nose, cutlery dropping from her hands. No-one reacted to the clatter of metal, nor moved to help her, as she uttered a low moan, slumping backwards against her seat, her eyes open and empty.

Some psychic assault? Well, she did have an incredibly strong will, as shown by absorbing the essence of a demon without the thing even trying to control her. Shamuth shot her a look from the corner of his eye, not daring to meet her even gaze, as she sawed through a lump of too-cold meat with as much decorum as she could manage.